


Bar Fights Bring People Together

by orphan_account



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: (I guess...?), (They're not romantic to each other yet), Action, Bars and Pubs, Blood and Injury, Drinking, Friendship/Love, M/M, Pub Brawl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 16:35:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12752067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: After a job well done, both Jesse and Hanzo find themselves within the infamous Calaveras; a place of cutthroats, thieves, gangs, and familiar faces. What could go possibly wrong?





	Bar Fights Bring People Together

**Author's Note:**

> I always thought posting this would be under much more positive circumstances, but I can't change what's happened. As broken hearted as I am, I worked tirelessly throughout the past few months on this, and I refuse to waste it. So without further or do, I present to you my Bullseye! zine fic, found in the section "Close Encounter of the Unlawful Kind".

McCree watched wide-eyed as Hanzo knocked back his glass, downing a generous amount of whiskey.

Up until that point, he hadn’t seen Hanzo drink anything stronger than sake. It came as no surprise to him when Hanzo suddenly jerked forward with a cough, one hand over his mouth and the other balled into a fist on the counter.

Behind the bar stood Javier, with a glass and cloth in his hand. He washed the glass casually and watched as Hanzo tried to regain his composure. In all the years McCree had been coming to Calaveras, he had yet to see so much as a smile crack that sagging face of his. This time was no exception.

“Too strong?” Javier asked, when Hanzo was finished choking.

His cheeks glowed red under the bar’s dim lights. “Not at all,” he managed to croak.

McCree finally let loose the laugh he had been desperately trying to hold in. With a roll of his eyes, Javier turned his back to them and reached for one of the bottles on the rack. He placed it on the counter and slid Jesse the glass he’d been cleaning.

“Enjoy, gentlemen,” he murmured, shuffling off to greet the duo who had just entered.

 They were a tall, skinny guy and a large, round man in a pig mask. Both wore trench coats, holding them tightly around their bodies as if they were feeling cold. A little odd, but stranger folks had come through those doors before.

As soon as Javier was gone, McCree shot Hanzo a grin.

“ _‘I can hold my liquor,’_ huh?” he said. He screwed off the cap and poured himself a generous serving, then refilled Hanzo’s glass. “Told ya not to test him. If you say _‘give me your strongest,’_ he’s gonna try his damnedest to kill you.”

“I feel like my insides are on fire,” Hanzo said.

“Sounds about right,” McCree replied.

Hanzo leaned back in his seat, head swivelling about to look at the rest of the place. Admittedly, Calaveras was an acquired taste. It was dim, cold, and the harsh smells were strong enough to knock you out. The place was chock-full of cutthroats, gamblers, and criminals. A perfect retreat for the wandering gunslinger.

“How did you find such a… _unique_ establishment?” Hanzo asked, watching as McCree filled his glass.

McCree shrugged. “Right after I left Blackwatch, I think. To be honest with ya, my memory gets a bit dodgy when I come here.”

Just as he said that, Jesse caught sight of Paula in the corner. As per usual, she was enjoying a bottle of rum and typing away at her phone. Her hood was up, covering the purple-tinged hair underneath. McCree had shared a quick conversation with her some time during the holidays, but everything afterwards felt like a blur. All he could recall was her brief introduction of herself, and the fact that she had bought him some quality bourbon. He turned to focus back to Hanzo before he could follow his line of sight.

He raised his glass. “To saving the world.”

For a second, Hanzo glared at him as if he were insane to suggest that he try drinking anymore. But then he let out a long, defeated sigh and reluctantly mirrored the gesture.

“To being damned heroes,” he added dryly.

“That’s the spirit!” McCree said.  

They took a swig together. The second he swallowed, Jesse knew he should have thought twice before wetting his whistle with anything Javier had suggested. Hanzo sputtered and coughed some more, and Jesse was inclined to join him. It felt like Satan himself was clawing his way down his throat, setting the walls ablaze as he went.

“That’ll certainly put hair on your chest,” he said breathlessly, his voice noticeably scratchier.

Hanzo reached out to inspect the bottle. Before he could catch a glimpse of the price, McCree swatted his hand away.

“I said the next round was on me if we survived the mission, didn’t I? I’m a man of my word.”

Hanzo leaned forward on the counter, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. He said nothing.  Either he was gradually coming to terms with how stubborn the gunslinger could be, or he was simply annoyed by it. McCree couldn’t quite tell. After a few more drinks, the whiskey began to take hold of them both. The bar felt a lot warmer with liquor flowing through their veins.

Jesse playfully nudged Hanzo’s shoulder with his elbow. “So, where you off to after this?”

The archer straightened up. “I'll be resuming my original mission. Restoring my honour.”

As Jesse feared. _Mind’s still dead-set on going alone._

“You know,” he began, lowering his voice so no one would overhear (it _was_ a bar full of cutthroats, after all). “Talon ain’t gone for good. Not by a long shot. They’ll still want you for that reconditioning program.”

Hanzo shrugged. “It is a risk I must take.”

McCree shook his head. Before the archer could refill his glass, he placed a hand over the lip. “Hanzo, come on. Genji’s forgiven you.”

“I’m quite aware that Genji has forgiven me—”

“Then _join_ him.”

Hanzo was silent for a moment. He reached out and took a swig straight from the bottle. He set the now nearly-empty bottle back down and said, “What does it matter to you what I do?”

“What does it—” Jesse leaned forward, trying to catch Hanzo’s downcast eye. “Considering what we just went through, y’can’t blame me for giving a damn about your safety now.”

Hanzo was about to pick the bottle up again, but Jesse gripped his wrist to stop him.

“Tell me this,” he sighed. “What honour are y’gonna restore by winding up buried in the dirt? Or worse, like Lacroix’s dame? I know you don’t trust me a lick, but you gotta trust me on this. You can’t keep running forever.”

Just as Hanzo opened his mouth to say more, but he was interrupted by a loud _thump_ behind them. The two men turned to look over their shoulders just in time to see Javier’s slim frame slide across the floor. The bar went completely silent, every pair of eyes now fixed on the scene that was unfurling before them.

McCree was off like a bullet. He rushed to Javier’s side, bending down to help him. Javier groaned as he turned over onto his back, and McCree caught sight of the ugly black ring beginning to form around his eye.

“Well, well, well,” a voice sneered from above him.

McCree’s eyes snapped up. A large group of men and women stood before him. Their loose tank tops revealed luminescent tattoos. Intricate designs reminiscent of sugar-skulls covered their faces and arms. Los Muertos. The whole lot of them, from the look of it. Naturally, the biggest guy was the one who’d spoken. His arms were crossed over his chest. He flashed the cowboy a toothy grin.

“What a surprise!” he gasped sarcastically, kneeling down to meet McCree’s eye. “The one and only Jesse McCree. You know, you don’t look at all like your wanted posters. They make your nose more crooked. But don’t worry, I can fix that for you.”

The others cackled at his comment. Before McCree had time to think about what a cocky halfwit this guy was, the man was suddenly yanked away. Hanzo had grabbed hold of his tank top, pulling him back off his haunches to shove him into the crowd of his friends. They caught him just before he hit the floor. The man shook them off, scowling at the archer and cracking his knuckles.  

“You're going to pay for that,” he said with another sneer.

McCree rose to his feet, sliding in beside Hanzo. They looked at each other and shared a nod. True, they were weaponless, but weapons weren't going to be necessary. They’d just foiled an internationally-feared terrorist organization’s plans. Surely they could handle a few cartoony thugs.

As it turned out, they couldn't handle it. At all.

Swift as a snake, the gang leader went for his belt, unsheathing a small knife as he charged forward at Hanzo. McCree dived in front of him, using his metal arm as a shield. The blade collided with the solid steel plating. The man yelped and dropped the knife to the floor. Jesse looked down and saw it glinting at his feet. Just as he kicked it away, he felt knuckles slam into the side of his face.

He found himself on the floor, his jaw throbbing and his right shoulder burning with pain. He heard Hanzo cry out his name, but his voice was quickly drowned out by the crowd that had encircled them. He was tossed onto his back like a sack of potatoes. The leader of the gang sat down on his stomach. They proceeded to punch McCree senseless, only relenting for the brief second when the gunslinger had managed to kick the leader off.

Blood trickled down Jesse’s face, spilling into his open mouth as he panted. He saw Paula leaning across her table. She had her phone pointed in his direction and there was a smug grin on her face. She had a perfect bird's-eye view of the brawl, and was no doubt recording it for her own amusement. The skinny guy from earlier was whooping and hollering like a banshee. His friend in the pig mask stood behind the crowd like a dark shadow, silently watching the fight unfold.

Jesse could see Hanzo in the background, fighting with some of the Los Muertos members who had joined in on the beat-down. Just as Hanzo smashed a whisky bottle on one of their heads, Jesse felt fingers wrapping around his ankle. He was forcefully dragged back into the brawl.

Moments later, McCree was unceremoniously thrown out the door of the bar, tumbling onto the cobbled street. The sound of cruel laughter rang in his ears. He rolled onto his stomach with a grunt, as one of the goons tossed Hanzo out after him. He, too, collapsed in a heap on the street.

McCree glanced up at the open door. A member of Los Muertos stood poised before it. On top of her head was Jesse’s beloved hat. As their eyes met, she tipped it to him.

“See you around, _partner_!” she called, in a mockery of his accent. Then she slammed the door, shutting them out in the cold.

McCree slumped to the ground. His skin felt clammy and every bone and muscle in his body throbbed. He wanted to wallow in self-pity for a while longer, but he dragged himself up anyway. He turned his head to look at Hanzo. The archer lay on the ground not far from him, curled up on his side. Jesse winced at the sight of the cuts and bruises that covered his face.

“You alive?” he asked, leaning on a wall for support. His body still thrummed with adrenaline and his legs shook beneath him.

There was a long moan as Hanzo began to move. “…Unfortunately.”

McCree limped over to help him as he began to rise, throwing one arm around his shoulder and wrapping the other about his waist. Together, the two dragged themselves towards their hovertruck as quickly as they could, given they were equal parts drunk and beaten to a pulp. Once they were inside the vehicle, McCree leaned over the steering wheel, pressing his forehead against it. Blood dripped from the end of his nose, staining his pants. He wiped his face with his serape.

"Sorry about the whiskey," he heard Hanzo say from the passenger’s seat. “I may have used it to knock a man unconscious.”

“Well, “Jesse murmured, “at least I didn't pay for it.”

They sat in silence for what felt like years. At last, Hanzo spoke up.

“I…I trust you,” he said.

The statement was completely out of the blue. McCree swallowed his nausea and cast Hanzo a weary glance, prompting the archer to continue.

“You were right,” he said. “I cannot keep running for the rest of my life, I must face my mistakes. Put my skills to better use.” He stared at Jesse with those piercing eyes of his. “I trust you and, by extension, I trust your organization.” He paused, then he added, “I will join Overwatch.”

If he hadn’t been in excruciating pain, McCree would have cracked out a celebratory cigar for them both. Instead, he gave Hanzo a feeble smile and a pat on the shoulder.

“This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” he said, then abruptly turned to roll down the window. He couldn't keep the nausea at bay any longer. “And like any good friend, y’gotta hold my hair back.”

It hadn’t exactly been the most graceful initiation McCree had witnessed during his time with Overwatch, but he could say one thing. It certainly was unforgettable.

**Author's Note:**

> Please look it in your hearts to try and support Stonewall Japan and True Colors Fund directly. One of my closest friends uses Stonewall Japan to get the help she most certainly needs, as well as many other kids just like her. Linked down below are their websites! Every little helps!
> 
> True Colors Fund: https://truecolorsfund.org/  
> Stonewall Japan: http://stonewalljapan.org


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